


there may never next time be

by ImperialMint



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Girl Power, Happy Ending, Miscarriage, Prophetic Visions, Queen Daenerys, Self-Indulgent, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialMint/pseuds/ImperialMint
Summary: Daenerys sees the future ahead of her, laid out on an ashy road. Ahead lies death and destruction, her end in madness, and it is everything she has ever feared.It doesn't have to be that way, not if she truly is a dragon.[alternate 8x05+ fic)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 100% self indulgent girl-power, dragon, dany being happy and a good queen fix it. if you like it, great, if not then... honestly? this is for me. plus it can't be worse than seaon 8 RIGHT :|
> 
> because come on there are so many amazing women and they would be tired of this bullshit by now. rally together ladies, be the best you can be, i know you can do it. honestly though why can't everyone just be nice to each other, why can't dany listen to women more, why can't some of the plot holes be mended... so many whys. 
> 
> Part 2 will be out in the next few days, with the main focus there being recovery/jonerys. I hope you enjoy!

The scent of ash and burning flesh fills Daenerys’ nostrils. Her breath stills in her chest as her eyes catch the masses of charred building and pockets of dragon flame, marring a city she has dreamt of all of her life. This is her kingdom, she thinks, as she stares at her armies, intact and unbroken, at the steps of the Red Keep.

No, she thinks. This isn’t how it should be, and Daenerys feels herself fall further, the chimes of a bell and the screams of her subjects under Drogon’s wings. She feels her heart break at Dragonstone, betrayal and love and fear wrapping around her like the three heads of her family crest. Daenerys falls further, to watching the sand at the foot of Kings Landing stain red with the injustice of Missandei’s death, her call of dracarys and the fall of her second son.

There is nothing but fire and blood in this future, and Daenerys closes her eyes. This is what she has always been walking towards, isn’t it? This is the madness she’s fallen to, the madness that has been snapping at her heels, despite her advisors and friends promising that she wasn’t like Them.

How could she break the wheel when the future was full of ash and death?

“Our men need to rest!” 

Daenerys opens her eyes wide, staring down at a war table. Sansa Stark, a woman who has little love for anything other than her own family’s survival, is saying words Daenerys has already heard. Words she ignored. Words that lead to her ultimate destruction. 

Be a dragon, Olenna Tyrell counselled once, belittling Daenerys’ advisors. She could be a dragon, but there were many ways to be a dragon, and Daenerys knows she doesn’t have to depend on the wisdom of the small men she’s been keeping close to her.

Her dreams come true, and this has been a warning.

“Lady Sansa is right. Our forces need to recover.” Shock meets Daenerys’ words, even from Sansa. Her lips part, as if she wants to object, or ask why the sudden change of mind, and instead settles on her most pragmatic reply.

“We do not have the supplies to sustain your armies and two dragons,” she says, but the words are empty. The resources are most likely there, when they count their losses and Sansa’s planning. The dragons are something else, but Daenerys doesn’t plan on leaving two dragons at Winterfell. 

“I wish to speak to Lady Sansa alone,” Daenerys says, ignoring the looks everyone shoots her. Tyrion would no doubt try to advise her, coddle her and twist her to letting him talk to Sansa. In another world, Daenerys might have accepted it. But not this one. Not when she knows undoubtedly the stakes are so high.

Sansa is understandably tense when the room empties. Jon hovers between them for a moment, meeting Daenerys’ gaze for the briefest of moments before he looks away. She remembers begging him to conceal the truth, and now she knows the price secrets hold. Sometimes things need to remain secret, but this was never one of those. 

If she is to fall, Daenerys will be the source of her own undoing. Not Varys. Not Tyrion. Not Sansa, and certainly not Jon.

“My brother, Rhaegar married Lyanna Stark and she gave him a son.” Sansa’s eyes widen, her complexion paling. “You’ve known him as your half-brother, Jon Snow, when he was born to the world as Aegon Targaryen.”

Daenerys knows Sansa thinks this is a trap. She hides her shock quickly drawing herself up and looking down, eyes cold. Good, Daenerys thinks. She has fire in her, will do anything to protect her family.

“Why are you telling me this? If this is true, Jon has a better claim to the throne. Jon should be the king.” Sansa is all the Northern fury Jon never will be. She is a wolf, teeth bared, and she will not bow for Daenerys’ love.

“I have seen how this ends,” Daenerys says, looking down to the table. She takes one of the wooden dragons, fingers smoothing the worn wood. “I have seen how this ends if I walk this path alone, in solitude and hatred. I came to Westeros to free the world of tyrants, to break the wheel of suffering for the good of the people.”

Daenerys sets the dragon on the table, meeting Sansa’s eyes once more. 

“If I carry on, millions will die. I will become nothing more than what my critics have thought, the Mad King’s daughter. The good I have done, the people I have loved and who have loved me, will mean nothing. Instead of breaking the wheel, I will reinforce it, with fire and innocent blood.” Daenerys tilts her head as Sansa searches her eyes, trying to sound out a trick or a betrayal. 

“When I take the Iron Throne, the North will be yours on the condition that we work together. You have the power to destroy me and place Jon on the throne, and he can give you the North, just how you want. I gave you that.” Daenerys smiles, a small thing that seems to shake Sansa to her core. “Before that, I want you to watch what I do next. I want you to understand who I am before you place your brother on that throne. I want you to realise that we don’t have to be enemies, that the world we can create, together, is the future you want to choose.”

Sansa is silent, and Daenerys can’t blame her. Until now there has been nothing but misery and anger between them. That can’t stay if Daenerys wants a just and new world, and if she has to sacrifice the North, then so be it, as long as they work together. She doesn’t have to lose the North entirely, not if Sansa will place her faith in her.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Sansa says, and Daenerys knows she is already plotting, already working on what she will do, what will make sense. “What are you going to do?”

Daenerys doesn’t reply at first. She smiles, wide, and Sansa’s eyes widen yet again, as if she is seeing Daenerys for the first time. 

“I’m going to be a dragon,” she replies. “Just as you have always been a wolf. Think about my words, please. I would be content to rule in a world with you close to my side.”

It is a sudden shock, just as the death of Rhaegal, Missandei, Varys and the population of Kings Landing in her vision were. She knows all that she holds dear will crumble in her hands if she travels that path, that her madness will take to the hearts of those with her in Winterfell. Some may live, survive Drogon’s fire and Daenerys’ anger, but there are many who will not.

Daenerys isn’t going to flip the coin that will decide who she kills and who she lets live. This is not her path, not anymore, and the men surrounding her have been unable to guide her. She will try the women, those who should have always been her sisters in this war, and she will take what is hers with fire and blood, though she will not lose herself this time. 

“You may leave. Thank you for your time,” Daenerys says. 

Sansa takes a moment, but she leaves, head muddled, and Daenerys hopes she has forged a new alliance. Not one that was won by Jon, but one that was created by her. She is done letting others lay her path down for her. Daenerys will soar.

She sends for Missandei and Grey Worm next, asking for them to stay with her in her chambers. They enter with worried looks, and Daenerys knows they have been hounded by her advisors on her sudden change of mind. 

“My Queen,” Missandei says, and Daenerys takes her hands, looking into her eyes. She looks back, uncertain, as Daenerys feels tears spill down her cheeks. Missandei is here, not bleeding on the floor of some wasteland, and she wipes away the tears with a smile. 

“I saw the future if our path did not change course.” She doesn’t need to say more, doesn’t need to explain that it does not end well for any of them. Grey Worm stiffens at her side, and Daenerys feels her heart ache for her other-self, the one who lost and continued to lose. 

“I am going to end this. I am going to end this on my terms without anyone I love getting hurt.” Daenerys shakes her head as Grey Worm begins to speak, remembering charred flesh and the echoes of the dying all around her. 

“When I am done, I will take you to Naath on the back of my dragons. You will never have to return to this cursed land.” Daenerys takes their hands in hers, squeezing tightly. “I am going to take what is mine, and I need you to keep everyone else in the dark.”

She lays down her plans, solidifying what she will do with Missandei and Grey Worm’s input. It’s not a perfect plan by any means, but it is better than the other path open to her. Daenerys cannot take armies and both dragons south. She will not. 

“We will tell them you are mourning,” Missandei confirms. “That you are seeking solitude with your children. It will work, at least for some time.”

Daenerys nods, and she accepts Missandei’s offer of help to pack her bags. Grey Worm heads off to gather food for her journey, discreetly, and as Missandei closes the last of her bags, Daenerys holds her hand out, taking her to sit on the furs of the bed.

“I should never have brought you so far North, to this strange and cold land,” Daenerys admits. It was cruel of her, and she thinks of the cruelness Missandei suffered in her final moments. 

“I came willingly,” Missandei replies, and she moves to hold Daenerys tightly. She shudders, holding back tears, and when she pulls back her eyes are red. “You need to come back too. I can’t return to Naarth if another sits on the throne. The world will not be safe under another ruler.”

It almost makes Daenerys laugh. She destroyed the world, rained fire and brimstone down, and yet… and yet here she is. She knows what she is capable of, there is nothing more to fear. Daenerys became what she always feared, and she has another chance. 

“I will not let you down,” she promises, voice low and vow made. Daenerys is prepared to die this time, to die before she falls victim to her darkest thoughts. She will have her children destroy her before she destroys the people this time. 

“If I may…” Missandei says gently, almost shyly, and Daenerys’ gut twists. “What of Jon Snow?”

It’s something Daenerys has tried not to think about. Jon can barely stand the sight of her, warring with himself, and Daenerys knows how this ends now. She knows his devotion, knows she caused so much pain and hatred in a man devoted to her, and she knows it was never truly love.

It was its own madness, in a way. And she will not have it this time.

Even if it means lying to Missandei and ignoring the pain in her chest.

“He means nothing to me,” Daenerys says, tilting her chin. She knows Missandei sees through her lie, but Missandei just nods, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her cheek. “I cannot afford distractions.”

If Sansa decides that Daenerys is beyond salvation then so be it. If Sansa wants to place Jon on the throne, there is no saving Daenerys. Without her knowing it, Daenerys has placed her rule and her life in Sansa’s hands. She will be her judge, and if Daenerys fails, loving Jon won’t matter anymore.

If she lives? If Daenerys gets everything she has fought for for so long and almost destroyed? If Sansa deems her worthy of her titles? 

Daenerys has to get there before she can think of Jon.

There is a knock on the door, one of the Unsullied soldiers. Grey Worm is ready, he reports, and Daenerys nods. She takes minutes to change into something more suitable for dragon riding, Missandei grabbing her bags. They don’t know the secret passages of Winterfell, but they don’t need them. It’s dark now, the Northerners content to stick to their rooms in the warmth, and Daenerys doesn’t meet anyone on her journey out of the castle.

She thinks she feels eyes on her, and Daenerys is sure, should she look back, she will meet Sansa’s steely gaze. She doesn’t, and she leaves Missandei and Grey Worm at the edge of their army camp, hefting her bags on her shoulders.

“Take care,” Daenerys says. “When we see each other again I shall be Queen and you will be free.”

She turns and walks, heading out into the cold, dark night. Daenerys knows where her children are, can feel their presence no matter the distance, and she walks for barely twenty minutes before she can hear the fuss and rumble Rhaegal is making, as if he knows his part already.

“My children,” Daenerys says, eyes trying to make out Drogon in the dark. He helps her out, sidling up to Rhaegal and crooning softly. “We are going to finish this.”

She should have done this with her three children. Viserion should never have been reduced to a pawn in the Night King’s game, but this is what she has. Two dragons are better than one dragon, and Daenerys settles her hand on Rhaegal’s scales, between his nostrils.

“You are still injured,” she whispers softly, valyrian slipping from her. Rhaegal lowers his head, promising that he will not let her down. “I need you to roam the land, fuel rumours that I am anywhere but where I am headed. Be cautious and stay safe, and do not fly far south.”

There is only death there, she warns him, and Rhaegal huffs. She can see his irritation in his eyes, but Rhaegal has always been a good child, a sweet dragon. He will do as asked, knowing she wouldn’t deny him fire and blood if there was not a good reason.

Rhaegal will leave when the dawn strikes, but Daenerys and Drogon must leave now. They have a long flight ahead of them and the darkness will hide their arrival. Drogon lowers his wing, brushes his nose against Rhaegal’s shoulder, and then he begins to move. Daenerys has just enough time to adjust her bags and then herself before they are flying, soaring, and she closes her eyes, tears leaking down her cheeks.

This is her flip of the coin, she thinks. The next time she sees this place she will be a different person. It scares her more than she will ever admit – not that there is anyone to admit it to. So they fly, over Westeros and on to their future.

.

The Iron islands are a grim reminder of a life Daenerys does not want. The people are distrusting, much like the North, but once they realise who she is, which is admittedly not hard considering Drogon’s presence behind her, they take her to their leader. Drogon remains, tilting his head curiously as the people of the Iron islands stare in wonder at him. 

This is what dragons should be, Daenerys thinks as she mounts a bay horse. Fear is a natural instinct, and she could never fault anyone for reacting in fear, but that is not all they should inspire. It’s not all she should inspire. 

“Forgive me your Grace,” Yara says the moment she steps into the great hall. She looks harried, quickly dressed and eyes wide. “We are vastly unprepared for a visit.”

“I wish to speak alone,” Daenerys says, and Yara nods for her guards and attendants to leave. Her trust is unwavering, her loyalty warming, and Daenerys nods to the chairs by the fire, the set up more casual than any great hall she’s been in.

“We don’t play host to many highborns,” Yara says, and she sounds proud. “There hasn’t been much call for hosting audiences. We’re too busy rebuilding the destruction the men of my family wrought over our people.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Daenerys says, and Yara nods slowly. “Theon Greyjoy will not be forgotten. Neither will your dedication to our cause. You retook your homelands and still pledge yourselves to my cause.”

Daenerys looks into the flames, fingers curling on her chair. Yara is quiet, no doubt trying to make sense of why Daenerys is here.

“I want to thank you. Properly. I am going to destroy Euron Greyjoy’s ships. I am going to burn his soldiers and their weapons. I am going to take Euron Greyjoy and bring him here, to your doorstep, where you can decide his future.” Daenerys looks up, fingers now white from where she has been clutching the chair.

“I promise this to you. You will choose your own justice for a man who has hurt you and your family so deeply. After that, you will rule in the Iron islands, if you pledge loyalty to me.” Yara’s eyes are wide, her eyebrows drawn in confusion.

“I don’t understand, your Grace,” she admits, and Daenerys nods. She relaxes her hands, nodding again.

“I have seen unlimited bloodshed,” she says, and Yara leans forward, listening intently. “I have faced many lessons and yet I am still learning. I have many enemies, it is true, but they mean nothing to me when I compare what they have done to me with what they have done to you and others. I will destroy my enemies, yes, but I will also allow the ones who have suffered for me the chance to destroy those who hurt them the most.”

Yara sits back in her chair, speechless for only a moment.

“We will sail after you, my Queen. Let us follow you,” she says, and she falls to one knee, looking up in earnest.

“Drogon will deliver me to King’s Landing long before you arrive,” Daenerys says, but it doesn’t deter Yara.

“We will follow you. We will be closer than the Iron islands that way, to receive your prisoner and deliver justice to him. We will then surround King’s Landing and help you take what is rightfully yours.”

It was always their plan, back when she had three children and hope in her heart. Daenerys knows she cannot stop Yara from following her, but she wants to protect them. Their home is here, and Daenerys has had enough of stealing people from their homes.

“Would I be able to stop you?” she says, and Yara lets out a laugh, dropping her other knee to the floor. Daenerys runs her hand over Yara’s cheek, wishing she could apologise for all the pain and suffering Yara has gone through under the Targaryen banner. She cannot make that right, but she can offer a future.

“A dragon is a good place to start,” Yara says with a smile, and Daenerys nods, blood chilling. It is indeed a good place to start.

“I will not stop you, but I do not plan for this to last long. I will destroy Euron Greyjoy. I will destroy the Golden Compass. I will destroy the weapons that dare to strike my children down. I will destroy Cersei Lannister.” The fire pops and an ember lands on Daenerys’ cheek. She brushes it off, a shiver passing through her and leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

“I hope to leave in the night,” Daenerys adds, the bitter taste giving way to exhaustion, and Yara nods, standing and calling for an attendant.

“Thank you, my Queen,” she says as Daenerys heads to her rooms, and she turns to look over her shoulder. She sees a woman who has suffered, as so many have, with hope in her eyes. Daenerys feels triumph fill her chest, validation swell in her lungs, and she knows this is a better path than the one she trod before. 

.

It takes time to get to King’s Landing, especially when they have to travel past Dragonstone first. Daenerys doesn’t know where Euron’s fleet is, and whether they set up at Dragonstone after finding out she had left Winterfell or whether they stationed themselves there already.

As it turns out, they are on the open water between the two destinations, though closer to Dragonstone if she had to guess. Daenerys has stuck to flying Drogon at night, despite his grumbling. He can’t see as well, but he doesn’t need to when they have the element of surprise. 

“Be careful,” Daenerys warns as they fly high, high enough that no one can hear his wingbeats or feel the colossal shift of air as they survey the fleet below. It’s difficult, and the only reason Daenerys can see anything at all is because they are careless. Lights fill the ships, and she can imagine the carefree drinking that she is about to interrupt. 

It’s arrogance, Daenerys thinks as Drogon dives, flames pouring down on the fleet. Euron is arrogant enough to believe he is untouchable, that he has the answers, and she knows that she was in the same position not so long ago. She had been arrogant to claim divinity had chosen her, arrogant to think the world could love her just because of her name. She had been arrogant to trust Westerosi men without once seeking the words of the Westerosi women. It was arrogant to think she could do this alone, and Daenerys feels nothing as the fleet burns beneath them.

She can hear the whirl and click of the scorpion even from such a great distance. All ships except one have been burnt beyond salvation, and Drogon turns toward the flagship, Euron aiming for his head. 

He misses, of course he does. Drogon lets out a rumbling call, a laugh, and Daenerys feels elation, finally, as he snatches at the weapon, casting it into the water.

They cannot land – Drogon would not be able to become airborne again – so they circle, Daenerys scanning the ship for any sign of Euron. She snarls when all she can see are soldiers trying to cast her down. Drogon roars and spills fire over them all, the last ship in Cersei’s fleet nothing more than charred wood.

The fire illuminates the ocean and Daenerys can see the creatures of the sea coming to claim their prizes already. Shadows play on the water and it takes a long while for her to find her prize. When they do, Drogon slowly lowers them, lower and lower until his great wings are whipping up the sea spray, his tail splashing behind them as he struggles to stay flying.

“There!” Daenerys calls, and it takes an almighty effort for Drogon to haul them upwards, talons sweeping through the surf to clutch at their prize, but he pushes upwards with an almighty roar, a call of victory.

They have Euron Greyjoy and the fleet is no more. She has a promise to fulfil, and so Drogon flies. He is tireless, and when this is done, Daenerys will let him rest. She will have no more use for her children to push themselves to their limit when, if, she is Queen, and she strokes Drogon’s neck as they fly. He murmurs a reply, steering them down to the coastal cliffs. He sets down, careful not to crush their prisoner, and roars to the sea. Daenerys doesn’t know where they are geographically, but she sees Yara’s ships when they steer close to the coast. 

It takes a few tries for Drogon to land on the sand, and Daenerys knows he is unhappy with the small beach. He could scale the cliffs, probably, but they’ll cross that bridge when they need to leave. 

“As promised,” Daenerys says, when Yara sets foot on the beach. She looks down at Euron’s bloodied, unconscious body and then back at Daenerys, wonder in her eyes. 

“My Queen,” she says, bowing her head. Her people do the same, but Daenerys waves them away.

“I trust your judgement, but if you spare him and he raises arms against me, I will burn him.” Daenerys will always be a dragon, a creature of wonder, but she will not be taken for a fool. She would have Euron killed now, but that is not the queen she wants to be. She has to let her people choose, and just as the North chose the North, the Iron islands have chosen Yara. 

She must inspire loyalty and love, not control and fear. It’s a lesson she never would have learnt if not for her vision, and Daenerys must learn quickly now. Westeros is not one slaver city she can liberate and earn the loyalty of its people. Westeros is ancient and complex, but she is slowly learning. 

“He will not leave these seas,” Yara says, and she motions for her soldiers to take Euron on their rowboat. “We demand the iron price for his sins,” Yara says, and she bows her head. She is dismissed, and Daenerys watches her move towards the rowboat.

“Thank you,” Yara says, turning back, one foot on the side of the boat. “You have our unconditional support in this war, Queen Daenerys.”

She leaves, and the words stiffen Daenerys’ spine, clutch at her throat and leave her barely able to breathe. Would Yara offer such unconditional support if she knew what Daenerys was capable of? Of course not. She could be a monster, and no one could follow or love a monster.

Dawn breaks on the cove and Daenerys closes her eyes. Sea salt stains her skin and she licks her chapped lips, salt bursting on her tongue. She needs water, but all the water is on Drogon’s back.

As if summoned by her thoughts Drogon lowers his head. He is tired too, and Daenerys supposes it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to find somewhere to sleep. She asks Drogon to find them somewhere, and after clinging to him as he scales the cliff, they end up a short way away, a small lake tucked into cliffs offering them solace.

“We will set off when the sun sets,” Daenerys says as Drogon settles them into a tight cave, curling around her as much as he can. “Rest until then. We’ll wake with plenty of time for you to hunt.”

She closes her eyes and sleeps.

.

Jon wakes to cold chambers and instantly knows something is wrong. His mind feels sleep-addled, Ghost isn’t by his side, and every wound from the battle aches, as if his body is trying to warn him against something. He groans as he slips from the bed, breath misting as he shivers, hands shaking as he desperately tries to relight the fire.

It shouldn’t have gone out, Jon knows, and he almost wants to bury himself back in his furs and ignore whatever duty calls for him now. It’s an omen, and when the harried knocking on his door begins, Jon really isn’t surprised. 

And he still hasn’t got the fire to catch.

“Enter,” he says, hoping his lips aren’t blue and he doesn’t look like a fool who can’t keep his own chambers warm.

It’s Sansa who enters, though she won’t meet his gaze. She paces the length of the room, seeming to unconsciously pull her fur cloak tighter around herself, and Jon lets her get on with it. He still isn’t sure where he stands with Sansa, particularly after whatever Daenerys might have talked about with her yesterday.

“The dragon queen is gone,” Sansa announces, and Jon feels his stomach plummet. Gone can mean so many things, and Sansa seems to balk at whatever panic she can see on his face. “Missandei says she has gone to mourn her friend in private. She has taken her dragons and wishes for solitude.”

Jon’s shoulders relax somewhat, though he hates to think of Daenerys alone, warring with herself and all Winterfell has brought her. He knows Jorah never had her heart, but what if she now wishes he had? It would have been easier not to love Jon, he things, and he feels a pain in his chest at what she might be mulling over. 

“We won’t be seeing her for some time,” Sansa says, and Jon refocuses on her. He senses there is something else, something more that Sansa wants to say, so he remains quiet.

“Were you ever going to tell us the truth?” Sansa says suddenly, and while it could refer to a million things, Jon knows instantly what it is she is speaking of. He’s shocked, wondering whether Sam went behind his back, or if Bran cast the information off easily. He opens his mouth to ask.

“Daenerys told me. She told me the truth of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and of Aegon.” Sansa looks up, fire in her eyes as she speaks of the name bestowed to him at birth, the name of a man he never wants to become. She looks as if she wants to deliver him to the iron throne herself, and Jon shakes his head.

“I don’t want it,” he says, gritting his teeth. “I told her. I promised her. I don’t want the damned throne.”

Sansa searches his face before she sighs, moving to the fire and taking up Jon’s abandoned tools. She is there, kneeling for less than a moment before the fire catches, and she straightens right beside Jon, their shoulders touching.

“She asked me to judge her. If she cannot prove she is a just Queen, I will spread your claim to the throne across the realm.” Sansa says it so calmly, so simply, and Jon feels ice spread through his veins.

Why would Daenerys give Sansa the one thing she feared? This is beyond any weapon she could have armed Sansa with, it’s a total annihilation of her claim to the throne. Daenerys has given Sansa everything Jon knows Sansa has been angling for since he bent the knee, and he can’t fathom why.

“Why?” Jon asks, but the look Sansa gives him tells him she was hoping he has the answers.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I don’t think she is mourning alone with her dragons.”

They’re left in the dark for almost two weeks before the first reports begin to pour in. A green dragon flying across the North and Westerlands, never further south than Riverrun, and always in the dark. They wonder what Daenerys is doing, assuming the reports simply cannot see the black dragon and its rider.

The reports begin in fear, asking for assurances that the dragons have not been sent to destroy, but in the days following, Rhaegal is seen approaching villages, laying waste to bandits and protecting the good folk. With Rhaegal’s whims, as they begin to call them, come a trickle of acceptance of a Targaryen Queen. It’s small, but it’s a start.

Daenerys’ advisors are in an uproar and have been ever since she left to mourn, left to pay visit to the people of her kingdom it seems. Tyrion is more in his cups than out, and Varys seems almost manic in his information gathering, trying to snatch at invisible webs. They are smart men, true, but they seem to have forgotten they follow a smart woman too.

Whatever Daenerys is doing, Jon misses her, he can’t deny that. She is lost to him, and he never thought he could feel this way about another person. She is his aunt, true, and yet he yearns for her, to see her face, to gently touch her arm, to hear her voice. She is safe with her dragons, of course, but Jon wishes he could know. 

They left things so terribly. He needs to apologise, need to explain, needs to try and work out who Aegon Targaryen is to Jon Snow, and he needs her help to do that. He doesn’t know what it means to be a Targaryen, and there is only one of his kin left in this world.

A Targaryen alone is a terrible thing, Jon remembers, and he wonders what that will make him if she never returns North.

In Daenerys’ absence, there is much to get on with. The Northern Lords and their armies begin their marches home, promising to march south when the raven calls. They watch them go, a smaller mass vanishing over the horizon than the one that arrived for sanctuary at Winterfell’s gates. It’s haunting, but the North is strong, and they will endure. 

“We just received a raven from the Iron Islands,” Tyrion announces, barely waiting for Sansa to take her seat at their makeshift counsel table. “The Iron fleet is sailing south.”

“To King’s Landing?” Jon asks, heart hammering in his chest. If Daenerys is taking on King’s Landing, he should be there.

“We received word that Rhaegal was at Moat Cailin only a day ago. Not even a fully-grown dragon could fly the length of Westeros in such a time,” Varys says, raising an eyebrow. “If the Queen is continuing with our plan without us, she will be at Dragonstone, waiting for the Iron fleet to join her.”

“Except Euron Greyjoy stands in their path,” Sansa points out, and Jon watches as the room reaches the consensus that Yara Greyjoy is out for blood against her uncle. 

“It’s a bold move,” Tyrion says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. Jon is inclined to agree.

“I don’t believe Yara would sail south after only just reclaiming her home. Her fleet is outmatched, outmanned and outpowered by Euron’s.” There is something else, something none of them know.

And that is the reason why. Why is Daenerys flying south – or not flying south as the case may be? Why is Yara Greyjoy heading south? What is happening that the North has missed?

“We need to take our armies to King’s Landing,” Jon says, voice firm. He ignores the way Sansa jerks forward, mouth open, but she stills before she speaks. “We will march south and follow our original plan. That way we will win the last war.”

“You won’t make it in time,” Bran says, and the scarcity of his voice silences the room entirely. “If you leave Winterfell, you won’t understand.”

“You know what the future holds?” Tyrion asks, but Bran shakes his head.

“No, not quite.” He is silent a moment before he looks at Jon, eyes dark and warm. “I have seen glimpses of a future, once, but the future is open to interpretation and, as such, there are many paths that are still open.”

“And?” Tyrion prompts, and for once, Jon can’t blame him. They are grasping at thin air now, unsure what their own futures hold, and they are without their Queen. They are, in essence, powerless without her.

“I can see what she is doing now. And I know we need to stay here.” Bran nods slightly, and he seems to tuck in on himself. He’s said his piece, let them know what they need to do, and there are so very few options that waiting is the best.

Their group breaks and Jon heads for the suite of rooms Daenerys used when she was at Winterfell. It’s been so long that her scent no longer clings to the furs, but Jon isn’t here to remind himself of what she’s left behind. He’s here for someone else.

“My Lady,” he greets Missandei when he knocks on her door. She looks as if she’s been expecting this, not once hesitating to let Jon inside, inviting him to sit for wine. He accepts, if only to have something to hold, and Missandei joins him when drinks have been poured, waiting for him to speak.

“Daenerys didn’t leave to mourn, did she?” he says bluntly, and Missandei’s face gives nothing away.

“My Queen lost a very close friend after a very harrowing battle. She needs time to recover, alone.” Missandei says politely, and Jon is glad Daenerys has someone so loyal and kind at her side.

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “I was hoping to talk to you about her,” Jon says, changing his path of conversation, and Missandei tilts her head.

“You know my Queen better than most,” she says, a slight smile curving her lips for a moment. It fades to politeness quickly, and Jon looks away, shifting in his chair. Everyone knows about him and Daenerys, of course they do, but he can never hide the prickle of embarrassment that he’s allowed someone for himself. 

He was never meant to deserve the love of another, but here he is.

“Were you there when her dragons were born?” Jon asks, and Missandei shakes her head.

“Her dragons could breathe fire by the time our paths crossed,” Missandei says, and she gives a cold smile this time. “But you must know the stories of how the dragons came to hatch.”

Jon nods. “She walked out of a fire with three dragons,” he says, but Missandei shakes her head, pain on her brow.

“My Queen doesn’t like to talk about it, even though it gave her her children. She tried to be kind, but her kindness ended with a witch slaying her Khal husband and unborn son. My Queen brought justice to the witch with fire and blood and climbed the funeral pyre for the only family she had left.” Missandei looks down, hands clasped together.

“The world sees a miracle when the reality is that Daenerys Targaryen climbed into that fire to die. When she woke in the ashes with three dragons, she knew then that she was no ordinary woman.” Missandei looked sorrowful, brow furrowed. “She was not graced with the peace of death. My Queen has suffered and lost, and that is almost all she has known.”

Jon’s stomach twists as Missandei looks at him, and he knows that she would die for Daenerys in a heartbeat. 

“My Queen deserves that throne, and she will get it. My Queen deserves love, and she will get it. My Queen deserves happiness, and she will get it.” Missandei tilts her chin, and Jon knows he is being held accountable for everything he has ever done to hurt her Queen. “She will be the Queen of this land the next time you see her, Jon Snow, so if you are only going to hurt her, stay in the North.”

It’s a warning, and Jon nods. He understands now why Daenerys left to do this on her own. She is lost, just as he is, and neither of them can find themselves while they are chained to others. Jon needs to decide, needs to reconcile with Aegon Targaryen, and only after that can he see Daenerys again.

And only if he can open himself to her love. Missandei is right; he will not hurt her again.

.

When the night falls, Daenerys doesn’t move. Drogon snuffles at her curiously, but she rests the back of her hand against the side of one nostril, thinking.

There is one goal left, the goal she’s been chasing for such a long time. She has to do this right, this time, and she cannot do it with anyone else. At least, not if she wants to inspire anything other than fear. 

“When the dawn breaks,” she whispers to Drogon, and he stirs, unfolding his wings, baring his teeth in preparation for their fight, “our path will be made.”

They fly to King’s Landing, and Daenerys isn’t surprised to see the walls fully manned with scorpions and Lannister red. She feels a moment’s pity for the soldiers on the wall as she commands Drogon to burn the scorpions, but it vanishes as the first arrows hurl towards her.

“They will not take us,” Daenerys snarls, and Drogon soars upwards, recovering his breath before dropping once more, continuing his path around the walls of King’s Landing. 

Cersei will know they are here. Daenerys can hear the rallying of her armies as Drogon’s fire burns, and she grips to his spines, trying not to lose herself. She is not here to become Queen of the ashes once more. She is here to send a message, to become a ruler the people can accept.

The city gate bursts open, soldiers and mercenaries pouring out by the time Drogon has finished with the walls. She can hear people screaming, see others running, as Drogon crosses the city, but she doesn’t set fire to her kingdom this time.

They don’t love her yet, but what has she given them to love? What has she given any of them to love?

Your dragons, your armies, your heart and your soul, something whispers inside of her, and Drogon hurls himself upwards at the twist of bitterness in her stomach. Daenerys sooths him, tries to soothe herself, and closes her eyes as they crest the clouds.

I am not my father, she thinks. Westeros has taken so much from her, but she arrived with expectations. Unlike those that follow her across the sea, Daenerys has never shown them the magic and wonder she inspires. They have never known her as their Khaleesi or Mhyssa. All they know is a foreign woman and her dragons. All they have known of her is her fight against the dead, and she was hardly at her best. 

Jon knows you, her mind whispers, and Daenerys opens her eyes. It was true, once, but now Jon knows himself, and that is something that is at an odds with everything Daenerys is. 

Drogon lands on the space outside the city, and Daenerys stares at the gate, where the other-Missandei fell. She feels sorrow and longing. She wants Missandei by her side, but she cannot let that happen unless Cersei falls.

The army surrounds them, the Golden Company circling her on their horses. There are foot soldiers too, and Drogon snarls, ready to fire when Daenerys wants him to. She shakes her head, takes a step forward, and calls out to the soldiers.

“I once employed the Second Sons,” she says, and a hush falls over the night. She has their attention. A sellsword may not always be honourable, but they all have a price. “Do you know where the Second Sons are now?”

“Gone!” someone calls, and jeers echo around the room. Horses paw the ground, snorting in anticipation, and Daenerys smiles.

“They exist under House Targaryen rule. They oversee the former slaver cities of Dragon’s Bay, keeping the Queen’s peace.” She pauses, searching the crowd for the leader. She meets him, astride his grey horse, and straightens her back. “They are happy men, men who will never have to scavenge another day in their lives.”

Daenerys turns, making eye contact with as many soldiers as she can. They are uneasy, no doubt fuelled by years of Targaryen reputation and weeks of Cersei’s lies.

“I will give you the chance to bend the knee,” she says, and she sees the arrogance in those who think they can control her, defeat her. There may be some who bend the knee, but more will think they can kill her, more who do not understand exactly who they are facing. 

“Bend the knee and you will be a part of the greatest reigns the world has ever seen,” she calls, and there is the shuffle of metal as the company look to their leader. His jaw stiffens, lip curled as he looks Daenerys up and down, and she sees the exact moment he seals his fate in his eyes.

She wonders if he had forgotten the dragon entirely, for when Drogon stirs, the grey horse charging towards her, sword drawn, his eyes widen. It’s over in less than a moment, embers scorching Daenerys as she commands the Golden Company’s demise. 

They were little men, she thinks as she picks her way through the charred bodies. Better these men of little honour than the population of King’s Landing, and there are always sacrifices in wars. 

As Daenerys walks, her clothing scorches, the fabric of it catching. It fades quickly, the trousers cutting off at her shins and cut of her coat mangled. She must look a mess by now, after days in the wild, but Daenerys doesn’t have time to think about how impressive she will look as she walks into her city for the first time.

The gates open for her, hanging limply on their hinges. The wall still burns, though it is beginning to die down, stone melting from Drogon’s wrath. Daenerys steels herself and walks onwards, through the flames and corpses, unhindered, with Drogon calling to her. 

“I will meet you at the steps of the Red Keep,” she says, and Drogon raises his head. “You will know if I need you, but we will not hurt the innocent.”

It is perhaps one of the most foolish things she could do, but Daenerys needs to inspire these people. She needs them to know who she is, needs them to see her and Drogon are more than the whispers Cersei has sent through the streets. She needs them to know they are not forgotten, not how her other-self had treated them. Daenerys Stormborn will do better by these people, and she will start her rule as she means to go on.

Almost as if they cannot believe she is doing it, Lannister soldiers gape as she walks forward. She leaves behind destruction at the edge of the city, walking in Drogon’s moonlit shadow, and slowly picks her way to the keep. It will take hours, she knows, but Daenerys is patient. 

No one attacks her, though Daenerys almost flinches at every sudden movement, every soldier in Lannister red they pass. She knows the soldiers understand what she is capable of, knows they witnessed her mercy at the gates, the choice she gave the Golden Company. She wonders how many would discard Cersei if she asked them to, and has a feeling these soldiers have very little love for their queen.

She doesn’t ask them, not yet, and they leave her, hands gripping their swords. Daenerys doesn’t know if it’s Drogon above or her audacity to enter the city so simply that affects them the most, and she doesn’t question it. She doesn’t look back, only forward, ahead to her goal.

The night moves onwards, and Daenerys gains the curiosity of the people as she moves through the streets. Instead of moving away in fear, they join her, wiping sleep from their eyes. A few of them call to each other, laughing that they are following the mad dragon to the keep, but there are more who are quiet, curious to see what she will do next. 

It’s at the walls to the inner city that Daenerys pauses, turning on her heel. Drogon lands above her, precariously balanced on the walls, and the men stationing the gate run, screaming. Daenerys doesn’t move, surveying the haunted and terrified faces of the subjects of King’s Landing as they try to make up their minds whether to run or stay.

“I will not hurt you,” Daenerys calls, her voice echoing through the dark streets of the city. The crowd falls silent once more, what feels like thousands of eyes on her. She swallows and summons the dragon inside of her. She will be good for these people, she will rid the world of Lannister tyranny, and she will do it with their support. 

“Cersei Lannister has told you I am a mad foreign whore who would see you burn in your homes,” Daenerys calls, a chill spreading through her at the thought that that was who her other-self became. “I am not going to burn you. I am not going to destroy you. I am not going to hurt you.”

They don’t believe her, but that is okay. Daenerys isn’t here to win these people over in one night, but it is a start.

“I want you to remember that Cersei Lannister burns her enemies in Wildfire. She ignores your problems in favour of sitting in the Red Keep. She would sacrifice each and every one of you to keep the iron throne, and for what?” Daenerys looks over the crowd, pride swelling in her chest.

This was what she was meant to do, the queen she was meant to be. She is a queen of the people now, not a mad dragon queen or an invasive foreigner. Daenerys has won because of herself, not because of the strength of her armies. She has inspired and won, and she will do so now, no matter how long it takes.

“I will unseat Cersei Lannister and break the wheel that rolls over us all!” Daenerys calls, and the crowd cheer. It isn’t a promise that they will back her, it’s scarcely any support at all, but it’s positive, a rallying call that they are all interested in the future she might govern for them.

It’s all Daenerys needs to turn and allow Drogon to crumble the gate beneath his feet. It crumbles, and Daenerys walks forward, head held high as she closes the distance to the Red Keep.

The castle could be beautiful, Daenerys thinks as she continues her journey. Her feet ache, and she wouldn’t be surprised if they are bleeding, but she is almost there, almost in the room that has held so much pain and strife for so many people. Her blood sings, heartbeat resonating with the beat of Drogon’s wings outside, and Daenerys has to remember to breathe when she enters the great hall, Cersei Lannister seated in the iron throne. She tilts her head up as Daenerys walks towards her, and there is very little of the woman she met in the dragon pit.

This woman before her knows exactly how much she has lost in one night, and Daenerys might feel a kinship with her if not for the other-world and all this woman had taken from her.

“Your rule is over,” Daenerys says, and she can feel Drogon singing to her, the dawn beginning to break. He is tired, justly so, but they still have one more task to complete. “I will accept your unconditional surrender,” Daenerys says, eyes flickering to the towering monster just behind the throne.

Killing Cersei in cold blood would mean nothing to Daenerys. Cersei means nothing to Daenerys, not when there are so many others who could hurt Cersei a hundred times better than she ever could. Daenerys has plans for Cersei, and none of them require her staining her hands.

Cruel words pour from Cersei’s mouth, but all Daenerys can hear is the snarl she made as Missandei’s body fell to the floor. All Daenerys can see is Missandei bleeding, Rhaegal falling, people screaming and she-

“Dracarys,” Daenerys says, and Cersei pushes herself from the throne as Drogon rains fire down on the great hall. The Red Keep groans, glass and brick melting, and through it all Daenerys doesn’t move.

Drogon lands in the hall, mouth open as he snatches Cersei’s puppet-soldier, a twist of his neck sending him into one of the columns. It isn’t enough to kill him, Daenerys thinks, but it’s a start. The people need to know what Cersei is capable of, and she thinks they now have somewhere to begin.

“No!” comes a wail, and Daenerys turns, looking down as Cersei clings to the steps leading to the throne. “You won’t have it!”

She’s pathetic, Daenerys thinks, and ice flows through her as she thinks this is what she almost became. An obsessed woman, fixated on a chair that could never fill the void in her. The people cannot fill the void, ruling cannot fill the void, love cannot fill the void. The void is a part of Daenerys now, but she will bear it wisely. 

“Drogon,” Daenerys calls, and he turns his head. He is weary, as is she, but he knows what he has left to do. “Take care of her. Join Rhaegal and fly straight for Winterfell.”

It’s the cruellest thing she could do, Daenerys thinks as Cersei realises what her fate will be. She will die in a foreign land, surrounded by her enemies, judged by a woman she belittled and a family she devastated. There is no love for Cersei Lannister north, and her gaze turns to steel as she comes to terms with her fate.

“The people hate you. You will be ripped apart the moment you set foot in the street if your dragon leaves. The people know you are the mad king’s daughter, they know you’re a foreign whore, they know-“

“The people accompanied me to the Red Keep,” Daenerys says evenly, walking slowly up the steps to the throne, pausing to stare down at Cersei. “It’s almost a pity you will never get to see the love they will show me, considering you have always craved it.”

Elation fills her bones as Drogon snatches Cersei, pulling her down the steps before grabbing her and hauling himself upwards. Cersei screams, and Daenerys cannot blame her in that moment. Riding a dragon is exhilarating, life changing, yet Cersei is a prisoner in Drogon’s talons. He won’t hurt her, not with Daenerys’ instruction to deliver his prize to Sansa, but she doesn’t know that.

It is surreal when Drogon is gone, yet Daenerys does not feel fear. There has never been a time when she has been willingly without her dragons, yet here she is, in the kingdom she has taken back, alone. She pauses before the throne, staring at the swords, overcome with how much she has fought and lost, all for this throne.

It hurts. How much bloodshed, how many wasted lives? 

As she sits, Daenerys Targaryen vows that she will never tread the path once shown to her. She will break the wheel and keep it broken, and she will let the people see her for who she truly is.

The door to the ruined hall opens, and Daenerys wonders if this is her first challenger, come to finally plunge their sword in her belly. She blinks in surprise as Yara and a group of her sailors walk forward, though she shouldn’t be. Yara said she would sail for King’s Landing, after all.

“The city is yours, my Queen,” Yara says, and Daenerys can see none of them have needed to draw their weapons to get to the Red Keep.

“Long live the Queen!” the iron born call, and Daenerys closes her eyes, the sound of their voices carrying into the city, through Drogon’s destruction of the castle and out to the people.

When the voices in the hall pause, the words continue, and Daenerys smiles as the people of King’s Landing accept her. They don’t know her, she has barely shown them a drop in the ocean, yet they are cheering for her as the sun rises. 

It is the dawn of a new era.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so there will now be 3 chapters in total, this got out of hand. apparently there is more to wrap up than expected. who knew!
> 
> not a fan of this whole putting unborn children before living women thing the show has going on so... please note the new tag addition. there's so much emphasis on treating women as breeding objects like come on now. i believe in boat baby just not enough for this particular story
> 
> thank you for the support and i promise the last chapter will be full of jonerys and working through everything and HAPPINESS i promise
> 
> and who cares about travel times. i really don't!

Winterfell is restless. Daenerys’ armies are growing bored of the North, the people of Winterfell are growing bored of an unknown future, and Jon is growing bored of being stuck here without knowing where Daenerys is. 

“You will see soon,” is all Bran offers whenever they ask him. Sansa rolls her eyes at him, Arya frowns, and Jon paces. None of them are satisfied with his answer but none of the dare follow him when he heads to the godswood.

They are running out of useful things to keep everyone occupied. The funeral pyres have finally finished burning, the undead the last to burn. Repairs are going well, as well as plans to restore the North to its former self. Winter is breaking, or so Sam tells Jon, from what the maesters are telling him through ravens. Life can resume, but Jon doesn’t really know what that means.

There aren’t many people at Winterfell who do.

“The only one around here who seems to know what’s happening is refusing to tell anyone,” Tyrion says, eyes wide as he slumps over the table. They’re holding another meeting, for all the good it’ll do.

“And have you heard anything Varys?” Jon addresses, expecting the slight shake of the head Varys gives in return.

“Things are either happening too quickly for my little birds to get messages to us or things are not happening at all,” he adds, and Jon resists the urge to set his head in his hands. 

“Then we know nothing,” he admits, looking away from the table.

“Not nothing,” Sansa says, and the room looks at her in surprise. She’s been quieter at these meetings when they’re discussing Daenerys’ whereabouts and what she might be doing, so much so that Jon wonders if she knows something.

“What do you mean my lady?” Tyrion asks, voice gentle and on the edge of desperation. 

Sansa draws herself up, as if she’s only just realised that she spoke. She levels her gaze on Tyrion carefully, and Jon can see she is weighing her options. She shrugs, looks away, and Jon feels something settle inside of himself. 

Before they can speak, the air thunders around them, the call of dragons echoing nearby. It takes less than ten seconds for them to abandon the meeting table as two dragons fly over Winterfell, calling out with what can only be described as mirth. 

Jon thinks of nothing more than leaving the room, and he runs, sprinting through the halls of his childhood home and through the grounds, until he’s breathless and Daenerys’ armies are in sight. He can hear the noise above the blood pounding in his hears, the Dothraki calls of excitement and victory, and Jon steels himself to see Daenerys once more.

He slows when he reaches the edge of the camp and is joined by the others. They push through the crowd already gathered, staring out at the dragons. Between them stand the Unsullied and Dothraki, but they part easily. 

They keep their pace even, Tyrion, Varys, Sansa, Arya, Northern lords who have decided to bear witness, Jon, all of them. Jon wonders where Daenerys has been, why she told no one, and his heart leaps into his throat. Before she left there were so many questions he needed to ask himself, but what matters, what really matters, is that she has returned. 

Grey Worm stands at the end of their path, staring out at the two dragons. He says nothing when they approach, barely even acknowledges them, and Jon wonders why he isn’t rushing to greet Daenerys. It doesn’t matter, and Jon tries to look past the dragons to find where Daenerys is. 

“Only the Lady Sansa may approach,” Grey Worm says firmly, and Jon turns his head sharply. He doesn’t look at Grey Worm as Tyrion and Varys do, but at Sansa. She looks pale, but nods her head quickly, striding forward with her head held high, as if heading towards two great dragons is an every day occurrence for her.

Jon’s heart hammers in his chest. And then Drogon shifts, moving his right wing back slightly, revealing what looks like a body on the ground. From this distance, Jon cannot tell if Daenerys is dead or alive, but fears the worst. 

“My Queen,” Tyrion whispers beside him, but Grey Worms steps before him as he moves.

“You will wait,” he says, and while Jon cannot see any weapons on him, he also knows it is in their best interests to listen.

It seems to take Sansa an age to reach Daenerys. She stands beside her, staring down for a long while, before she turns, marching back to them with purpose. She doesn’t slow until she reaches them, and Jon has no idea what the expression on her face means.

He’d almost say Sansa is happy, but there are very few things that make her happy in the terrible world they live in.

“We will bring to the castle,” Grey Worm says, and Sansa nods, her hands trembling at her sides as she looks back.

“What is it?” Arya asks, and Sansa turns to her. She has tears on her cheeks, a smile on her lips, and she wipes at her eyes as she laughs.

“We will fly the House Targaryen flag alongside the Stark banners,” she announces, and Jon glances at Tyrion and Varys, all of them as confused as each other. “Today marks the start of a new beginning, and the North stands with House Targaryen through and through. Our descendants will never forget that.”

The Unsullied carrying Daenerys are nearing, and Jon pauses in trying to fathom what Sansa is saying. He looks at Daenerys and his stomach drops. It’s not Daenerys, and he doesn’t need the Unsullied to come closer to know who the woman is and what her presence in the North means.

“Daenerys has taken the Iron Throne,” Sansa says as Cersei Lannister passes, bloodied but breathing.

Jon almost cannot believe it, and he looks at the dragons. They call out, and he fancies that Rhaegal is searching for him as he looks over them all, but then they move. The dragons are leaving, and with them Jon knows the Dothraki and Unsullied will soon follow. Daenerys is not returning to the North, has proven she doesn’t need them and has done everything everyone told her she could never do. 

As the dragons prepare to fly, Jon stands, pulled in two different directions. He has a chance to fly to Daenerys now, if he’s quick, or he can follow his sisters inside and remain King in the North. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what he is worthy of, what he should do, and so he remains rooted, watching as Drogon and Rhaegal take to the skies, flying up higher and higher until they are no more. 

Jon’s heavy heart beats steadily in his chest as he hangs his head. Winterfell it is, at least for now. 

.

Each and every day Daenerys expects to be assassinated. 

In the first 24 hours after taking King’s Landing she, with Yara’s help, rooted out any obvious opposition and had them locked up. No one has died, yet, and no one will until her dragons return to her. When she starts executing traitors she will be in danger, and while she seems safe for the moment, she hasn’t done anything other than remove Cersei Lannister from the city. People need time to plan and they will want to test her first.

Still, for not a single attempt to have happened makes Daenerys wary. She knows she is not a Queen the common people wanted, if they even care enough to have an opinion on the matter. She doubts she is a queen many of the higher classes wanted either, but the nobility still in King’s Landing are polite to her, congratulating her on her success and wishing her a prosperous rule. 

“It’s not that I want someone to kill me,” Daenerys says as she leans back in the bath. “It seems an impossibility that no one has even tried. It makes me wary.”

Yara massages her head gently, and Daenerys feels tension leave her. 

“They are in awe of you,” she says, lowering her hand. Daenerys leans even further back into her lap, washing the soap from her hair. She breaks the water and turns around in the large tub, squeezing water from her hair. 

“Not a single attempt though?” she comments, and gestures for Yara to turn. 

“I’m sure they will come, but, if I may be frank, those who are not in awe of you probably think they can dispose of you easily.” Yara leans back as Daenerys soaps her hair, enjoying the simplicity of the task. 

“I’d imagine all of those will be men,” Yara says with a smile, and Daenerys lowers her head to the water, smoothing the suds out gently.

It’s been so long since she’s been able to look after someone, to bathe and wash with them. There has been no time to share a bath with Missandei since heading to the North, and even on Dragonstone time was scarce. Daenerys doesn’t think she’s had this since leaving for Westeros, and the thought chills her a little.

It’s been such a long time since she’s allowed herself to enjoy life. Daenerys enjoyed her time with Jon, of course, but it feels bittersweet now. She has nothing but memories of him spilling the truth in the crypt and her vision of a future that will never come to be.

“I am sorry to keep you here for so long,” Daenerys says, and Yara just smiles over her shoulder.

“Do you think I mind being in a bath with the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, if not the entire world?” She grins when Daenerys laughs. “You won the Ironborn because you were kind and gave us our own justice. Before that, you won us because you were always going to be the better bet, the better force, the better queen. We all believe in you, and if we have to stay here until we are old then we will do so proudly.”

Daenerys squeezes Yara’s hand gently. She wishes she could do more, run her hands over Yara’s skin and sink into her, but she is spoilt. The touch of someone who is not Jon means little to her now, and she will not consume Yara. Daenerys knows what it feels like to love someone and she cannot take pleasure when she knows how it could truly be. 

Jon has ruined so much for her.

As she rises from the bath, Daenerys hears Yara inhale sharply, and not because she’s seen something she likes. The inside of her thighs feel unnaturally warm, and Daenerys closes her eyes, knowing exactly what she’ll see. Yara leaps from the tub to grab a towel, telling her it will be okay, but Daenerys just looks at her tiredly. 

“It’s okay,” she says, catching Yara’s hands as she tries to help, somehow, any way she can. “It’s the aftermath. My cycle is off and unnatural. It has been since I was in the North.”

Yara’s eyes are shadowed, as if she’s trying to breech a subject Daenerys is not aware of. She is, though, and she takes the towel, wrapping it around her shoulders. 

“There could have been a child, perhaps” Daenerys admits, speaking aloud something only Missandei has heard. “After the battle, after so many people died, it was only to be expected. I’m not made to carry children, if that indeed was the root of the issue.”

Daenerys knows Yara wants to say more, to comfort her and tell her that her words are wrong, but they both know it will be false comfort. Daenerys had felt little when she’d stumbled inside from the battle at Winterfell. She’d had so many injuries that she hadn’t even noticed the bleeding between her legs. When she had slept and recovered as much as she could, losing something that was never meant to be hers had paled in comparison to seeing Viserion’s skull, losing Jorah, and the loss of so many of her army.

“Has a maester looked at you?” Yara asks, and Daenerys shakes her head. 

“The dragons are my only children. They will always be my only children. I do not need a maester to tell me what I already know, that I am destined to lose any child that grows in my womb. If I truly was with child, it was a blessing to lose this one before I knew it existed.” Daenerys wipes water and blood from her skin, dressing and ensuring she won’t bleed through her nightclothes. She avoids Yara’s gaze.

“May I sleep in your bed tonight?” Yara says, and Daenerys looks at her, a denial on her lips. “Only for sleep,” Yara assures, and while there is still no reason for Daenerys to allow her in her bed, she nods. 

Daenerys slips under the covers in quiet. The room is still lit by candlelight, and Yara snuffs them out one by one before she too slips under the covers.

“These sheets are so soft. I’ve slept terrible since being here, but I’ve been awake and comfortable at least.” Daenerys turns onto her side, staring out at the room. She feels the bed dip as Yara follows suit. “It’s the lack of the rain on the window that keeps me awake I think,” Yara continues, thoughtfully, and Daenerys presses a hand to her stomach, hidden under the covers.

“The Iron Islands are a harsh place to live, but they are my home. Some people think we’re the harshest bastards and bitches the world has to offer.” Daenerys inhales sharply as Yara slips her arm over her waist, resting over the hand on her stomach. She is warm against Daenerys’ back, fingers smoothing the back of Daenerys’ hand.

“I’ve been called many terrible things you’d think I was the most frigid, nastiest bitch in the world.” Yara huffs a laugh, forehead pressing to the nape of Daenerys’ neck. It’s startlingly intimate, and emotion wells in Daenerys’ chest. “Even someone as harsh as me believes it’s healthy to mourn your loss, even if you didn’t know you were pregnant, even if you might have chosen to get rid of it, even if you wanted to keep it. It might not have been a child yet, but it was still a part of you, a choice you never got the freedom to make.”

Her eyes are closed but that doesn’t stop the tears, and Daenerys curls her knees up, pulling Yara closer to her. 

“It’s okay,” Yara whispers, and for the second time in her life, Daenerys mourns the life of her child that never came to be. 

She doesn’t always have to be strong. She is not in the North where she has to hide the truth, promising Missandei she is okay as they take the bloodied bedsheets out for Rhaegal to burn while Drogon hunts. She can accept that this happened to her, even though she knew she would never bare a child. 

When the sun rises, Daenerys turns in Yara’s arms, her sorrow and grief settling deep in her bones to join the other children she has lost. She watches Yara a moment before she joins her in sleep.

They have so much still to do, and Daenerys has yet another woman to call a friend in this land. She will not let her down, not when Yara is one of a handful of people Daenerys loves with all of her heart. 

King’s Landing is not enough. The world is still unsafe, and Daenerys has a wheel to break.

.

Council sessions are stilted, Daenerys knows this. No one fully trusts her, but she just wishes they would at least try. She’s gathered the leaders of the remaining houses and while many have yet to arrive, the ones that are here are difficult, to say the least.

“The smallfolk are unhappy, your Grace” Daenerys hears over and over again, after they’ve put to rest the important issues of food supplies, money issues and the divvying up of land. She pacifies the families, even the feeble clutch of Lannisters, but warns them things may change when her advisors arrive.

Daenerys wants them to know that she was willing to let them bend the knee and continue their lives. Tyrion, Varys and the other countless bloodthirsty men? Daenerys doesn’t know what they will want. She thought she did once, but it ended with blood and death.

“What are they unhappy about?” Daenerys asks, hands resting on the table before her.

“They are unhappy,” the lord who spoke says, almost affronted that there should be a reason to their unhappiness. 

Daenerys sighs. Nothing will be resolved like this. She remembers Olenna, again, and what she said of her granddaughter.

“The people of King’s Landing loved Margaery Tyrell, didn’t they?” she says, and the lord stutters his reply. “They loved her because she thought of them as people.”

There’s no point waiting for the obvious conclusion to escape the mouths of these people. They either don’t care or fear her. Daenerys won’t win loyalties here, but she has her throne and that is what matters. The loyalties of lords can be Tyrion’s problem.

“I shall meet with the people. I did not come here to sit in a castle and look down on those who need me. I shall meet with them and they will tell me what they need.” Daenerys stands, the matter resolved in her mind.

“Your Grace!” outrage springs from the table, and Daenerys looks at the men who have spoken, fire dancing in her blood. Will this be the moment? Is she destined to die today?

“There is no need to concern yourself with peasants. They will do as they are told, and if they do not then there are always your dragons.” The lord who speaks looks so pleased with himself, as if all Daenerys needs to pacify herself is the mention of dragons.

“My dragons do not terrorise the innocent,” she replies, ice in her words. “I am no queen if I do not serve the people. I will meet with them.”

“What if you die?” someone asks, and Daenerys raises an eyebrow.

“Then I’d imagine that is one less problem for you to worry about.” She hasn’t addressed it directly, so Daenerys decides to do it now. Her children should return soon and by then, it’ll be too late to give these lords the pretence of a choice. She does not want to rule by fear, unlike her other-self.

“The wars that have been raging these many years may have deluded you into thinking that anyone can become king or queen,” she begins, and the lords shift uncomfortably. Daenerys catches Yara’s eye across the table, the two of them the only women in the room. She smirks, sits back in her chair, and Daenerys draws herself up.

“I took the throne because I believed in myself. I came from nothing, that much is true, but I have a legacy on my shoulders. I brought dragons back, I turned slaver’s bay into the Bay of Dragons. I have sacrificed so much, seen so much death and destruction, and it only made me stronger.” Daenerys pauses, meeting the eyes of everyone in the room. 

“I took King’s Landing by walking through its streets. I could have died in a thousand different ways that night but I did not. Do you know why?” Daenerys shakes her head. “Because this is my kingdom. I am Daenerys Targaryen and you are lucky to have inherited the positions you have because men and women greater than you sacrificed everything.”

No one stops her when she leaves. One of her handmaidens follows her in silence as Daenerys heads towards the maester’s tower. She misses the idle chatter of handmaidens that were more friends than servants, and her heart aches when she thinks of Irri and Missandei. Friends who Daenerys failed, whether the future came to pass or not. 

“You may wait outside the tower,” Daenerys says kindly. The handmaiden nods, settles herself down on one of the benches nearby, and Daenerys begins the climb to the maester’s ward.

He is out, which isn’t a surprise. Daenerys follows the corridor until she reaches a room at the end. It’s bolted and she raps her knuckles on the thick wood before sliding the bolt open.

“It’s just me today,” Daenerys says as Ellaria’s eyes snap up. “I shall free Yara’s schedule for tomorrow.”

Ellaria doesn’t react. She is still recovering, deathly thin and pale, and Daenerys knows her wounds are far greater than her lack of food and water. She is a woman in pain, an unspoken, terrible grief. 

“The prince of Dorne should be arriving in a week’s time,” Daenerys says, and Ellaria nods. 

“If it’s who I think he is, he’ll bow down and do whatever you want. There is no fire in them anymore.” Ellaria pushes the covers of her bed back, slipping her feet out and to the floor. Daenerys recognises it as an invitation and so she sits.

“As a sign of goodwill, I will ask the Dornish prince what he wants, but I wanted to ask you first. If he is agreeable as you suggest, he will do what you wish.” Daenerys slips her hand into Ellaria’s, familiar and trying to breech the chasm in her. Ellaria might not have Dorne’s control, but what happened to her happened under Daenerys’ orders. 

“I cannot give you your lover or your daughter back, and for that I am eternally sorry.” Ellaria jerks at the mention of her family, and Daenerys can’t blame her. She remembers the report the Lannister soldiers had given, guarding Ellaria’s newly discovered cell worriedly, one or two wiping their eyes at the discovery of a body in there too. Everyone had been disgusted at the cruelty, the savagery, of seeing your child die and decompose before you.

Even after losing her children, Daenerys doesn’t think she’s ever wanted to be so specifically cruel to someone. There is necessity and there is personal revenge. She’s come close, when she burned with her dragon eggs, but she had expected to die too, not reap rewards for the death of the witch. She needs to repay Ellaria for her loyalty and loss. 

“The monster Clegane and Cersei’s maester are in my cells. I want to offer you the choice to decide their fate. I gave Cersei to the North, Euron to Yara. I want to give you this.” Daenerys’ voice is soft, grip on Ellaria’s hand firm, and she waits. 

It is a while before Ellaria speaks, and there is a spark of fire in her voice when she does, a remainder that despite her losses, she is still there.

“I want them to burn. I want them to feel the fear of your power and the pain of fire on their flesh. I want them to scream and beg before they die and realise that no matter what they did to me, they still lost.” Ellaria turns to Daenerys, tears in her eyes.

“I cannot return to Dorne. I don’t deserve it, after what I’ve done and there is nothing there for me anymore.” Ellaria’s breath hitches and she looks down to her lap. “The Iron Islands hardly sound like a paradise but…”

“Yara,” Daenerys finishes, and Ellaria nods, tears spilling down her cheeks. 

“She is kind to me. I need that right now, and I can be of no use unless I learn kindness myself.” Ellaria takes a shuddering breath and Daenerys slips her hand free, settling them in her lap.

“You have my blessing. I will make sure that the prisoners burn and pay for what they have done to so many innocents. The North will ensure Cersei pays for what she has done too.” Daenerys cannot give Ellaria anything more, so she stands, gaze trailing to the window.

“When my dragons have returned and the Dornish prince arrived we will send for you to watch as those monsters burn. I cannot change the past but I will do my best for the future. If I can give you anything else, please let me know.”

She leaves, feeling less like a queen and more like someone who has failed a friend. Daenerys steels herself as she takes the first step down; she cannot change everything and she has to rise above emotion. She is the queen now. She cannot allow herself the luxury of friends. 

Halfway down, Daenerys pauses, hand on the wall and eyes closing. She breathes, once, twice, three times, and then opens her eyes. 

It is a lonely thing to rule. She hopes Drogon and Rhaegal will return soon. She misses her children.

There is too much to do before then, however, and Daenerys tilts her chin and continues her descent. She has a city of people to meet.

.

Winterfell is in chaos. Jon doesn’t have to look far before he sees people in heated discussions and he looks at them all meaningfully. There is too much gossip and rumour swilling about and he wishes there was someone to put it to rest. Perhaps he should talk to Sansa about employing a gossip quasher.

“Have they cooled off yet?” Jon asks as he enters the cells. Grey Worm shakes his head, letting out a huff of breath. It’s more expression from him than Jon has ever heard, outside of the battlefield. 

“Lannister knight says he just wants to see her, only once and that will be all he needs.” Grey Worm frowns. “The Hand of the Queen acted like a fool and brought shame to the name Daenerys Targaryen. Should be stripped of his titles.”

While Jon knew Grey Worm would have strong feelings in regard to Tyrion’s loyalty, there was no one else he could have trusted to guard the Lannister brothers. All others might have let Jaime loose to see his torment over Cersei or allowed their ear to bend to Tyrion’s silver tongue. Jon is impressed by Grey Worm, and he thanks him.

“I’ve come to collect them for their audience,” Jon says, and Grey Worm nods. “We would like you to attend too, in our Queen’s absence.”

Jon knows that Daenerys’ armies are almost ready to leave, but he isn’t ready for that to become a reality yet. Grey Worm is important in the upcoming trial too, and he agrees.

“My queen will want to know what happened here,” he says as he opens the cells. 

Jaime and Tyrion stand together, housed apart yet close enough to talk. They are filthy and stink, but they will be marched before the court as they are. It’s the least they deserve after brawling in the great hall, both lashing out at each other and Winterfell soldiers. They both wanted to see Cersei, were both denied, and both ended up unhappy with that decision.

“This isn’t the South,” Sansa had said as they were pulled apart, ale sopping down their fronts. She had been furious, Jon had seen, and he’d made the order for them to be locked up.

“You will be received in the great hall. You will explain yourselves and hear the fate of Cersei Lannister.” Jon keeps his voice level and cool as they walk, nodding as they pass many familiar faces. “My men are under orders to incapacitate you should you try to run. You won’t make it out of the hall.”

Tyrion makes a noise of affront, as if that was the last thing on his mind, but Jaime hangs his head slightly. Jon has more of an idea what is happening in Tyrion’s mind and Jaime is a wildcard. He is unsure of what his intentions are, unsure whether Jaime intends to move on in his life or if he wants to return to Cersei’s side. 

Two Lannisters together alone is too risky. Jon cannot afford to take any risks.

Sansa looks formidable when Jon presents them, steely gaze set ahead and hair loose. Both Bran and Arya sit either side, with a gap for Jon in the centre, and he moves towards it, though will be doing little talking during these proceedings. Grey Worm is invited to sit beside Arya and refuses, standing behind Jon instead. It’s an odd choice, one Jon tries not to read anything else into. A skeleton council sit in the side-lines, not many interested in the fate of these Lannisters. Cersei will be a different draw, and Jon knows already the hall will be filled when she is called before the court.

“It’s an impressive addition, did I say that before?” Tyrion calls, and Jon sits heavily in his seat, glancing over at the huge dragon skull beside Bran. It was gouged and scraped from where Rhaegal and Drogon had defended the North, but the reminders of that night reinforce the sacrifices they made. The sacrifices Daenerys made.

It had been Arya’s idea. No one had known what to do with it; the remainder of the bones could be moved and buried, but Daenerys’ dragon’s skull had been too cumbersome to deal with easily. It had been an hour of the Targaryen flag flying alongside the direwolf banners that Arya had proposed moving the skull to somewhere on show.

“Viserion died for the North didn’t he?” she’d said, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “We should remind ourselves of that if we’re allied with the Dragon Queen.”

No one had disagreed, which was odd to Jon in itself. He still isn’t used to Sansa complimenting Daenerys and commenting on the news trickling in from their sources. It seems as though Sansa respects her, likes her even, and Jon realises more and more how little he understands both women and politics. He still feels like he’s missing something, something in himself that is allowing him to move on and grow. The war is over, but Jon doesn’t feel like he’s done fighting. 

“We’re not here to discuss Viserion,” Sansa says. She had asked Jon if he wanted to do this, but Jon has very little care for the Lannisters. He never wanted to rule and now, now that the wars are done and the people can rest, Jon doesn’t need to take command of every situation.

Sansa does it far better than him, anyway. She has the mind to connect dots and lead people to giving her what she knows they need to give. Jon doesn’t care for the intricacies. They work well together, but Jon knows it’s only a matter of time before Sansa doesn’t need him at all.

“We are here to discuss whether you are acting against the wishes of our queen.” Sansa tilts her chin and Jon stares down at Tyrion. For such a smart man he manages to get himself in ridiculous situations. He has no loyalty, other than to himself, and while Jon might have once thought that smart and brave, it just makes him a fool.

“My Lady, please listen when I say-“ Tyrion starts, but Sansa just holds a hand up. 

“Our queen entrusted the fate of Cersei Lannister to me. She promised that the North would belong to us if we put our faith in her. She gave me the power to destroy her, to ruin everything,” here Jon stiffens, knowing his claim to the throne still sticks out like a sore thumb to those who know. “She gave that to me and asked me to give her a chance.”

Sansa tilts her head, half-smiling at Tyrion.

“I gave Daenerys a chance. I waited, knowing if I didn’t like what she did I could take things into my own hands, play the game of thrones as you are so fond of saying.” Jon watches Tyrion gives a huff of laughter, his eyes on Sansa and Sansa only. 

He recognises the look, a look of wonder and awe. They had been forced to marry in King’s Landing, Jon remembers. Sansa swore Tyrion a man of honour, that he’d never once touched her, but Jon can see it as clearly as he can see it in other men. Tyrion never touched her, but not because he doesn’t want. He still wants, he seems to be falling deeper with every word Sansa says, and he wonders whether Tyrion would ever be able to choose between Sansa or Daenerys. 

“Daenerys, our queen, left the North and delivered Euron Greyjoy to those he had harmed. I’ve had news she has the Mountain in her cells and plans to hand over justice to the Dornish. She has given us Cersei Lannister, whose multiple heinous crimes I do not even need to list.” Sansa sits back, hands folding on the table before her, and Jon can imagine the bored look on her face as she stares down the room.

“She did this while she was grieving. She did this while she was alone, save for her son Drogon,” Sansa says. “She did this while she was in pain and I cannot wait to see what she does when she is happy and healing.”

The room is silent save for the crackle of fire.

“And you have repaid your queen by betraying her the first chance you could get,” Sansa finishes, gesturing for Tyrion to speak.

He doesn’t, for a moment. Confusion mars his face, brows drawn together and lips pressed tightly into a thin line. 

“My Lady, I would never betray Daenerys,” he says, and while she barely reacts, Jon hears her scoff of disbelief. “My loyalties lie with her and her alone. I am her Hand of the Queen-“

“I understand your position, but Daenerys left alone. Her armies did not panic, nor did they ask where she was, unlike the rest of us. They waited, so perhaps they knew, unlike the rest of us.” Sansa shakes her head. “That is neither here nor there, however. 

“If you are so sure you have not betrayed your queen, why were you trying so desperately to see your sister?” Sansa says, and Jon watches as Tyrion takes a step forward, watches while Jaime seems to fold in on himself. 

“For that exact reason my Lady,” Tyrion implores, stretching a hand out to her, as if seeking forgiveness. “It is likely my sister will die here very soon, you cannot begrudge a brother the love of his family.”

There is laughter from the lords and ladies gathered, and Jon cracks a smile as he looks away. They all know how much the Lannisters love each other.

“You must understand yourself, knowing what it’s like to have family so close to the gallows and unable to-“

“Stop,” Jon says, voice firm. It rings through the hall and he stands, fingertips arched on the table as fury thunders in his gaze. Tyrion shrinks and Jon thinks good. 

“You stand in our family hall and speak to my family of the cruelty your family inflicted upon us. We understand your position very well. We have been living through it for years. Do not say things you will come to regret, or Cersei Lannister will be joined by her brothers, allegiance to the queen neither here nor there.”

“They were curious,” Bran says suddenly, voice calm. Jon takes his seat and watches Bran. His eyes flitter to the Lannister brothers, a smile on his lips for a brief moment, and then he turns back to Sansa and Jon. “They wanted to know how much a monster their sister is, what happened in King’s Landing, and whether there was any hope left for her.”

There is silence for a moment, and then Jaime looks up, shoulders squared. If he had a sword, Jon imagines he would be drawing it, marking battle lines in the ground.

“Cersei is not a good person,” he says, and Jaime pauses, looking down. It’s a hard thing to admit someone you love is terrible, and Jon narrows his eyes. “I wanted to see her. One last time.”

Sansa begins asking questions, questions to judge Jaime’s state of mind and what he truly wants, but Jon isn’t listening. He is, instead, wondering what he would do in Jaime’s position. 

If Jon loved a woman so terrible, what would he do? Would he try to go to her? Would he want to see her? Would he walk away?

If it was Daenerys… if it was Daenerys in Cersei’s position, imprisoned and alone, would he try to see her? He knows Daenerys has done terrible things in her past, but they largely happened to foreign people in a land Jon has no knowledge of. Does that make them okay? 

“People do terrible things we have to justify every day,” Arya says, and Jon starts in surprise. Arya never speaks publicly during council sessions. She has much to say before and after, but she is an observer.

“No one is innocent. That is why we wage wars and why children starve. It’s why the rich stay rich, regardless of whether they deserve it or not. It’s why families are torn apart by injustice and cruelty.” Arya shrugs. “Cersei Lannister did well at the game, but she has lost now. What good will seeing her do? Remember her as she was, when you thought yourself in love.”

“There is no hope for her,” Sansa cements. “She will die here.”

“The child!” Tyrion calls, and Jon’s eyes flick to meet Sansa’s, the two of them looking back to Tyrion as one. “The child she carries is innocent. Let her birth it, at the very least. Show mercy.”

There is a moment of silence, and Jon sits back, just as Arya and Bran do. Sansa leans forward, slightly, and opens her mouth, distain dripping from every word.

“How lovely it will be to inform Cersei that her punishment comes from her own brother’s mouth, with the thought that he is being merciful.” Sansa shakes her head, rising from her seat. “How much do you think she will enjoy being kept imprisoned as nothing more than a broodmare? And, at the end of it, how her child will be snatched from her arms and raised by a family she despises?”

Tyrion blinks, but Sansa is not done.

“Or did you think I would allow either of you two to raise your niece, nephew, daughter, son, whatever you want to call the child? Don’t be ridiculous.” Sansa turns to Bran for a moment before she continues. “This child you want us all to wait for isn’t even born and you want to beg us to be merciful because of it?”

Jon watches as Tyrion struggles, clearly wanting to say more and unable to. 

“Cersei Lannister will pay for her crimes regardless of her pregnancy. I won’t remind you of the crimes against the living she committed, nor will I remind you of how many unborn children your own family has murdered.” Sansa’s tone is bitter and icy, and Tyrion shrinks back. 

“I’ve seen enough of your pitiful faces. You are free to go.” Jon stands as the doors to the hall open, allowing Tyrion and Jaime to leave. They’d never planned to enact punishment, not when they have something bigger to discuss. Whatever Tyrion and Jaime decide to do, they need to do it quickly.

“Grey Worm,” Jon says, and Grey Worm steps up to his shoulder silently. “Let them both see their sister before she dies. They must not be alone with her, entrust your best soldiers and listen to their conversations. Cersei’s trial will follow this and her execution at sunset.”

Grey Worm pauses, a reminder that Jon is not in charge.

“You are too merciful,” Grey Worm says, but Jon sees him nod all the same. “She would be pleased. We will make it so.”

He leaves and Jon turns to Sansa, explaining what he has asked for. She sits stonily, but nods all the same, agreeing. There has been too much cruelty, too much bad blood, and they can allow the Lannisters this one courtesy. 

“She will be cruel,” Sansa says as the Lords filter out of the hall. “She will try to drag it out and hurt us,” Sansa says, looking at all of them, but lingering on Jon. 

“Then we shall make it quick,” Arya promises, hands drifting to her knife.

Even without weapons and in a hostile land, Cersei is still a force to be reckoned with. Words have power, Jon thinks, and he closes his eyes. Wars are so much easier than the trials that follow.

.

The prince of Dorne is a kind soul, Daenerys thinks. He is little more than a child, truth be told, a young teen striking out into the world, and while in years he may not be so much younger than Daenerys, it is clear he has lived a sheltered life, at least in comparison to her. 

“Dorne would welcome you with open arms my Queen,” he says as he bows low and takes her hand, kissing her knuckles in a gesture of overfamiliarity Daenerys has not had much of in Westeros. She smiles politely, inviting the prince into the castle.

“We have not fully finished rebuilding the Red Keep,” she says, apologetically. “We have decided to keep a few features, namely the open roof of the throne room.”

It had been an easy way to pacify the master of coin, truth be told, who had been about to keel over from the stress. Daenerys had sat the man down and asked whether keeping it open to the elements would be a better idea and had almost had a grown man clutching her skirts in tears for it. Tidying it up of course cost money, but the replacement would have caused for a raise in taxes on a population that could hardly sustain itself already.

Ruling the way she felt was right was going surprisingly well, and Daenerys wonders if she should just have done this alone all the time. 

No, she thinks. Her advisors were useless to her in Westeros because they were the wrong advisors, not because she didn’t need them. She thinks of Jorah and Ser Barristan, of Missandei and Olenna. There is no point thinking of a future where they were always by her side, at her ear, because that is not this future. 

Missandei would enjoy Dorne, Daenerys comes to realise as the prince speaks more and more of his home. He is unaffected by the civil war sparked by Ellaria, shrugging when it comes up in conversation.

“I am the prince now,” he says. “The people who died were distant relatives of mine. They died because of a foreign war, but I came to look after my people. I know you will be good to my people too, so I follow you.”

He is boring, Daenerys thinks as they dine with all the appropriate lords and ladies. He doesn’t stop talking, and Daeenerys is, at one point, alarmed that he will propose a marriage alliance between them when he starts discussing betrothal customs and how Dorne is unlike other lands, much more liberal and freeing. 

“Excuse me,” Daenerys says and her handmaiden, who she has learnt is called Eyva, follows. They make it to one of the antechambers before Daenerys bursts into laughter, Eyva giggling and shooting nervous glances to the door.

“He fancies himself a little doesn’t he your Grace,” Eyva says, and Daenerys closes her eyes, exhaling deeply. 

“I’ve had to deal with a lot of men who fancy themselves and I let them because they had something, I could gain from them. The prince of Dorne, however…” she trails off when she sees the slight flush on Eyva’s cheeks. 

“I have no interest in the prince,” Daenerys says, brushing hair back from Eyva’s cheek. She jumps like a cat, ducking her head in subservience, and Daenerys smiles. “Would you like me to put in a good word?”

“You Grace!” Eyva says, shaking her head so quickly her curls bounce. “I am just a servant and he is a prince!”

Servants pass them, eyeing them curiously and gaping when they realise it is the Queen hiding in what is usually a servant’s domain. They hurry away quickly, but Daenerys knows gossip is spreading when more servants begin to use this route. 

“I don’t want to be a princess,” Eyva hisses as Daenerys gives them both the once over, preparing to return to the feast. 

“We both know Dorne is more liberal,” Daenerys says. “You’ve heard the rumours about my past bedfellows, surely?”

Eyva is hesitant but nods all the same. Daenerys has only slept with Yara since coming to King’s Landing, and only a few people know of that. Still, her past is notorious, as any woman’s is, and she feels no shame in what she has done.

“I would be more than honoured to put in a good word if you wish me to,” Daenerys says again, and this time Eyva nods, cheeks brighter than strawberries.

They take the long way back to the high table, arm in arm as they greet the nobility of King’s Landing. Everyone is merry and jovial, and while Daenerys hardly feels safe (does she even know what that is anymore?) she doesn’t feel threatened. She introduces the Dornish prince to her handmaiden and he smiles, eyes taking her in appreciatively. She is a pretty woman, and Daenerys leaves her, heading to greet some noble or another.

It isn’t long before she leaves the castle entirely. Daenerys has nothing to be afraid of out here, and she continues to walk, nodding to the people on the street. She has been visiting the people, hearing their woes and trying to heal their ails. She cannot work miracles, but these people just want someone to listen. 

One elderly woman remembered her brother and his music. She’d remembered it with a smile, humming whatever she could recall from the tune. Daenerys had smiled and wished her good fortune, promising to get someone to look into the sewage in this area of the city. 

Now, as she garners smiles as she walks through the streets, Daenerys wonders what song Rhaegar had sung, what music he’d played. What had he played for Lyanna Stark? What wonders had he whispered in her ear to make her fall so terribly?

She is just as much a fool as her brother, Daenerys thinks, pausing outside a bakery. She too fell hard and fast for a northerner, but she picked the wrong one. Jon Snow would never be hers, not after the events of Winterfell. It would be better for them both if he stayed up there, sequestered away in ice and the cold. 

There is a sudden screech and a huge presence flies over the city. It’s Rhaegal, triumphant in his arrival over the city, calling out loudly to announce himself. Daenerys finds the streets suddenly full of people, all of them staring in awe at the sky, crowding to get a look at the dragon.

“It’s the green one!” someone shouts, and more people take up the call. They are amazed the rumours of there being more than one dragon are true, and she calls out to the people.

“His name is Rhaegal,” she says, and the people on the street turn to her, wonder and awe sparkling on their faces as their eyes slide from the stars and to her. 

“Your Grace,” they say hurriedly, bowing, but Daenerys shakes them off, calling for them to rise. 

“We are just humans enjoying the sight of dragons tonight,” she says, humour in her voice, and then Daenerys is off, walking through the streets until she reaches the blasted remains of the sept. Everyone has tried their best to fix it and move on, but the damage was so vast that not even Cersei could whip up a miracle. 

Rhaegal lands alone but that doesn’t worry Daenerys. Drogon is likely to be hunting and Rhaegal wouldn’t have come this far alone. He trills as Daenerys rushes to meet him, the people behind her pausing.

Rhaegar was the people’s prince. Daenerys speaks to her son softly, asking him. He snorts in response, stretching his neck out, and Daenerys knows he will follow her namesake, at least for tonight.

As she opens her arms, gesturing for the people of King’s Landing, her people, to come and stroke Rhaegal’s smooth skin, the crowd look at her in wonder, just like they do to her children. They move slowly, but they do move, petting Rhaegal like he is some cat or dog kept by the hearth. Each and every one of them begins to fall in love, and Daenerys cannot blame them.

“Thank you, my Queen,” they say to her as they leave, more people replacing those returning to their homes. Daenerys nods her head, back straight and gaze constantly roaming over the crowds, searching for dissent or distress. Rhaegal remains calm at her side, eventually settling to lie on the floor, dozing as people continue to stroke him. 

Daenerys watches and waits. These are her people, and this should be the happiest she has been in a long time. She should be overjoyed the people are accepting Rhaegal, ecstatic that she is accepted. 

Daenerys isn’t’ sure what it has brought her, but happiness isn’t what she feels. Perhaps it is a curse Cersei has laid on her from the North, ensuring Daenerys will never be content, or maybe Daenerys is too unsettled by unfamiliarity.

Things will get better now Rhaegal is here.

.

Before Cersei’s trial, Sansa is in Jon’s room, pacing a neat line into the rugs. Ghost occupies the entire bed, covers sprawled everywhere as Jon sits beside him, watching her with an unimpressed expression.

“You know a lot about what’s been happening down south,” he says, and Sansa holds a hand up, not missing a beat in her pacing. Jon closes his mouth and returns to staring at Ghost, wishing he too could be a carefree direwolf.

“It was Lord Varys,” Sansa admits, finally pausing to stare out of the window. “He passed the letter to me. No attempts on Daenerys’ life have happened. The people are happy, her allies are happy, no one has come forward with any major dissent.” 

“They are biding their time,” Jon says, his gut churning.

“Of course they are. She is charming and new at the moment, with two dragons to boot. Even if they kill her, they need something to defend themselves against dragons, and no one has that. The ones smart enough to get away with it know there needs to be a replacement, a cause, or else the wars will never end.” Sansa sighs, and Jon feels a man thrice his age.

“A lot of what I said to Tyrion was a lie, but it doesn’t come from nothing,” Sansa says quietly. “Varys’ contact also said the Queen surrounds herself with women, that she seems almost obsessed with putting things right, that she visits the common folk and walks the dirtiest streets of King’s Landing to hear their ails and set them right.”

She is good, she is kind, and the North never gave her any recognition for that. Jon doesn’t blame Daenerys for losing her trust in them all.

“We were cruel to her,” Sansa says, and she inhales deeply. There is something more, something she is hesitant to say, and Jon waits. It’s all he does now, wait.

“I think she had a vision of the future. She knew what was coming, what our paths were, and she changed it.” Sansa’s voice is small and cold, and Jon feels ice burn in his chest. “She said if she carried on, millions were going to die.”

The future is not a stranger to Jon, not really. He’s seen glimpses himself, has felt the winds of change, yet he’s never seen anything with such clarity to change his own path. Daenerys did, or so Sansa thinks, and he sets his feet to the floor, sitting upright and turned away from Sansa.

“Go south Jon,” Sansa says. It’s not a suggestion, it’s a demand, and Jon looks at her, anger flaring in him. 

“I won’t leave my home, I won’t leave my family,” he says, and the anger only grows as Sansa rolls her eyes.

“You haven’t been yourself since they named you King in the North though, have you. When you met Daenerys and got to go beyond the wall, got to ride a dragon, got to do many other things, how did you feel?” Sansa looks at him, eyebrows raised. 

“They named me King in the North and I can’t let them down-“

“And what, exactly, does the King in the North do? Do any of the Lords or Ladies report to you? Do any of them seek your counsel? When you sit in on the meetings, what do you think?” Sansa looks away, and Jon can see his anger reflected in her eyes. “You don’t do anything Jon! You float about the castle like a ghost. Your body is here but your heart and soul are missing!”

Sansa is furious and all of Jon’s anger drains from him when he realises this isn’t an attack. She is sad, desperately so, and she just wants him to be happy. She looks so upset, and Jon feels his heart breaking.

“Bran won’t say it because he’s the Three-eyed Raven. Arya won’t say it because she adores you, always has. There is no one else but me to say it, and while I love you dearly, you cannot stay here.” Sansa sighs, hanging her head. Her hands rest on her stomach and she closes her eyes.

“You’ve been taking the easy path Jon,” she says, and Jon hears a whine as Ghost wakes. He closes his eyes a moment later, but Jon knows he’d been sounding his agreement.

“There are no easy paths,” Jon says, but his stomach is in knots and he knows exactly what Sansa means.

“You haven’t thought about your heritage. You haven’t thought about Daenerys. You haven’t thought about yourself.” She moves to him, resting before him. “You’ve been fighting wars for so many years, but it is over now Jon. You are allowed to be happy.”

Was he happy when he woke up, alive again, after the biggest betrayal of his life? Was he happy when he realised he’d have to kill the woman he loved? Was he happy when he failed, thought she could make it, lost her and then never thought he’d experience such love again?

“She made me happy,” Jon says, voice barely a whisper. His mind is on the boat, back when he’d stopped at Daenery’s door with jitters running through his body. His mind thinks of her smile, the hope in her eyes, her sincerity at his bedside. 

Before they can continue, there is a knock on the door, someone’s voice informing them the court is ready for them. Sansa’s mouth is a thin line as Jon looks up, and he takes a deep breath.

“I will question her,” he says, and Sansa relaxes ever so slightly. “She will get what she deserves.”

They enter a packed court and take their seats. As before, Bran and Arya flank them, with Grey Worm behind. It is Jon who opens, this time, and Cersei Lannister is brought before the court and sat down on a lone chair before the high table.

Jon scans the crowd, picking out Tyrion’s familiar face. Jaime is absent, and while Jon doesn’t know what was discussed when he was with Cersei, he has an inkling. There is no noble knight coming to save his queen now.

“Cersei Lannister, your crimes are almost too many to document. You have seen the rise and fall of many Kings, seen the rise and fall of your own reign, have seen the end to many more. We cannot place a body count on you for your actions are too violent and cruel to determine exactly how many have suffered because of you.” Jon feels Arya stir at his side and he inclines his head slightly.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks, and Cersei looks at him, an angry lioness ready to strike.

“Your queen will be torn apart before you can get there,” she hisses. “King’s Landing will eat her alive and she will fail. Not even her dragons can save her.”

Arya shifts again and Jon shakes his head. 

“Is that what you have to say for yourself? Bitter words from a bitter woman who cannot accept she has lost?” Jon scoffs and Sansa touches his arm ever so gently. 

“You murdered our family and conspired to tear the kingdoms apart, all so you could mop up the rewards. We will be the death of you for sure, but it might be of interest to hear what your brothers suggested.” Sansa is fierce but Jon can see the way her fingers are shaking, how difficult it is for her to look Cersei in the eye. She has been the fuel for most of Sansa’s nightmares, the queen she always wanted to become turning to ash before her very eyes. 

“Your brothers wanted you to birth your child before you die,” Sansa says, victorious. “I know how much you enjoyed being treated like a breeding animal before, but the idea of looking after your child did not appeal to us.”

Sansa pauses, looking over the crowd as Cersei curls over slightly, arms wrapping around her stomach as much as they could while chained. 

“The journey from King’s Landing took that option away before it was truly a possibility,” Sansa announces, and while Jon can tell it’s taking so much willpower for her to remain calm and in control, Sansa managed to learn a lot from the Boltons. She is being cruel, true, but Jon has to admit it’s nothing less than Cersei deserves. 

“You are going to die in these halls, for what you have put my family and the kingdom through. Your brothers have scraped above punishment, one because he serves the rightful queen and his fate is in her hands. The other because he answered the call for help.” Jon’s voice is hard, leaving no time for Cersei to speak. Not that she wants to, but she does at least straighten.

She must have been an impressive queen, Jon thinks. He remembers her storming into the meeting in the dragon pit, all fury and splendour. She has none of that here and she is still as impressive, still as prepared to fight for what she believes in. If Cersei Lannister had joined them during their battle, perhaps there would have been a different path. 

Arya rises and makes her way around the table. Jon watches as she unsheathes a blade and swipes, a moment that could have gone on for hours over in under a second. She wipes the blade on Cersei’s shoulder as she moans, throat sliced open and blood pouring down.

“I heard that was how our mother died,” Arya says softly, though it carries through the room. A sombre silence falls, and then the whispers begin, people nodding in approval of the execution.

It was quick, as Arya had promised. For someone who has played a vital part in all their lives, it seems almost too good to say it is over. Here they are, however, Cersei’s corpse slipping to the floor, eyes open and unseeing.

As he watches blood pool on the floor of the great hall, Jon knows he is not destined to stay in the North. He doesn’t know what his future is, but he cannot fully know it until he leaves. He needs to quash his fear, put aside his misgivings and follow his heart. 

Sansa is already talking to the lords and ladies, they will have no issue following her. Jon’s title as King in the North is redundant now, and for that he is glad. He will travel with Daenerys’ armies and meet in King’s Landing. From there, Jon has no idea what will happen, and he can feel a small part of himself peel back, reveal the true Jon Snow once more. 

It will be a breath of fresh air, and Jon notices the look Arya sends him. 

He has a feeling she might join him.

.

The final House pledges their allegiance to Daenerys three days after the Dornish prince’s arrival, and King’s Landing celebrates in fashion. All of Westeros, every last inch of it, is under her rule now. She is the High Queen of it all, a ruler everyone defers to, and Daenerys knows she should feel proud and confident as the ink dries on the proclamation, but she doesn’t.

“Congratulations my Queen,” people say one after the other, greeting her as she stands there in her black and red gown, her smile fixed on her cheeks and crown pressing against her brow. She wears a dragon necklace, dragon brooch and dragon earrings, but she feels anything but a dragon. Perhaps a prized horse in the showring, perhaps a sheep led to slaughter. 

The celebrations themselves are fantastic. The entire city is feasting, or so it feels it, from the Queen’s table to Flea Bottom. There is enough food now, when wars are no longer an issue and foreign aid can be relied upon, so they all celebrate. Everyone is happy, people are becoming healthy, poverty is being scoured, and Daenerys feels like she has done good. 

It doesn’t feel enough though.

It is late in the evening when Daenerys sits back at her table. She is alone and she turns to watch Yara at a nearby table. Her head is close to Ellaria’s, the two of them recounting some story or another to the Dornish prince and Eyva, the entire table laughing loudly at the punchline. She looks to other tables, to other people with more stories that will never fall on her ears. 

Daenerys remembers another time she sat, alone, as her people celebrated their futures. She remembers the North and a chill seeps into her bones. 

How long has it been since she saw Jon? How long has it been since she thought of Jon? Weeks for the first, weeks for the second. Daenerys has been too busy to think of Jon and the wave of emotions he brings with him. 

Now, however, there is all the time in the world. She has done what she set out to do, conquered Westeros and brought peace – though time will tell if peace can remain. Daenerys has done all she can and she should feel happy, should be looking to the future, looking for prospective husbands and…

It sounds so dull. Her eyes return to Yara’s table and she sighs, though is careful not to show her reaction to the world. Daenerys doesn’t see herself sitting at this table with anyone beside her. She cannot imagine being happy on her throne, not the way Yara, Ellaria, even the prince of Dorne are.

Daenerys rises and the room recognises she is about to leave. She waves attendants and friends (can she call them that, really?) off and heads to the throne room alone. She feels like a child as she enters the room, moonbeams throwing shadows across the huge space. It feels almost wrong to be here, but this is hers. 

The throne is cold as she sits, and Daenerys ignores the discomfort as she settles, leaning back and closing her eyes. Oh how simple it was when sitting on this throne was the one thing on her mind. She was so naïve, so stupid.

It is better than the future that could have been, that’s all Daenerys needs to tell herself. She opens her eyes and looks down, trying to pick out the place where Jon ended her life. She does not know where it is, doesn’t truly wish to know, and instead finally allows her thoughts to drift.

Daenerys loves Jon, that she cannot deny herself. She thinks of the madness that gripped her in the other-future, of how Jon was her beacon, her shining light of love and joy, the only human left for her. Her emotions are mixed, however, for she knows he would end her if he believed it to be the right thing for the people.

“Have I done enough?” Daenerys whispers tiredly, allowing herself to break for a moment, her hands cradling her head as she leans forward. “Have I done enough for myself, for Jon, for them all…”

There is a rumble through the room and Daenerys looks to the side, unsurprised to see Rhaegal waking. She hadn’t noticed him until now, too wrapped up in her own thoughts, and she’s glad to see her child here. She leaves the throne as Rhaegal’s eyes open, a purring noise escaping his throat as he realises she is heading his way.

“Will you take me to Drogon?” Daenerys asks, smoothing the scales on Rhaegal’s nose as he rumbles again. He is agreeable and while Daenerys has never ridden him before, she can feel his excitement.

It’s an awkward climb to get out of the throne room but Rhaegal is an expert at it, launching them into the air with a joyous trill. He heads up until he catches the wind, circling around the Red Keep, ensuring that they are seen by as many people as possible. She can hear the cheers of her people and Daenerys’ eyes prick with tears. 

Rhaegal calls again, turning them towards the charred walls of the city. His wings beat faster and Daenerys feels his excitement. He is more expressive than Drogon, more willing to show his passion, and Daenerys smiles. 

They fly higher and that’s when Daenerys can see the cause for Rhaegal’s excitement. He trills as they loop lazy circles over a joyous Khalasar and lines of Unsullied, bringing them lower and lower at the edge of the city. Daenerys feels emotion well in her chest at the sight of her armies, of people who know her through and through, and her hands slip from Rhaegal’s spines to wipe her tears from her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispers to Rhaegal, and he turns his head to look at her, love shining through him. Daenerys is so lucky to have him, her son who she loves so deeply. 

They land and the Dothraki surround her, calling out wildly and praising her. She laughs, calling to her people from astride Rhaegal, thanking them.

“I could not ask you to sacrifice more,” Daenerys calls. “You will suffer no more, not now I am the Queen of this land.”

She is about to continue when her eyes pick Grey Worm out, ahead of the Unsullied troops. There are a number of riders with him, men and women Daenerys does not know, for the most part. She looks at them, wondering how many people her armies saved along the road, for she can see the hauntings in some of their complexions. It boils Daenerys’ blood and she swallows down bitter words. 

Tonight is not for revenge.

“My friends!” she calls instead, and Rhaegal lets out a shout, shuffling so Daenerys can see everyone. “Join me in celebrating our rule! The wheel is broken, the people are safe, I vow you this!”

They call out to her, praising her, congratulating her, and Daenerys feels hope bloom in her chest. She watches as the Khalasar begin to settle, dismounting and beginning the process of setting up their tents, the Unsullied largely helping too. They will camp outside the city walls and Daenerys will go to them in the morning to discuss what will be done. The Unsullied she imagines will stay with the Dothraki, but the Westerosi they encountered on the journey look like they might enter the city. Daenerys will let them all do what they want, this is not the night for her to tell them what to do.

A small group do not move, however. Rhaegal turns, making a distressed noise, and Daenerys looks down at her advisors with pity. They missed out on crowning her, missed out on forming her ruling treaty, and all because they were waiting for a chance to strike her down.

Daenerys doesn’t think they are bad men, just two men who have made poor choices. She will give them one last chance to redeem themselves, but after that, whatever happens will happen.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion calls up to her, but Daenerys has no patience for him tonight. Still, Rhaegal shifts like a child, refusing to move when Daenerys reminds him their goal was to go to Drogon. He whips his tail in a huff, grimacing when Daenerys shoots him a look.

“Rhaegal,” she says, and he lowers his side to the ground. For a moment Daenerys thinks he is unseating her, and the audacity of his movement steals her breath. Rhaegal shoots another look up to her, a noise of apology escaping his throat.

There is only one person Daenerys knows Rhaegal would make this much of a fuss for and yet she is still surprised when Rhaegal leans into the space Jon Snow is walking into. He is like a puppy yearning for his master, and Daenerys is glad no one understands dragon behaviour anymore if just for the fact she doesn’t have to be embarrassed by how desperate Rhaegal is acting.

Daenerys meets Jon’s eyes and her heart pounds in her chest. She can tell Rhaegal knows from the rumble she feels flow through her. She straightens her back, trying to keep her gaze level as she stares down at Jon.

There is a moment where the world seems to pause around them, everything filtering out. Daenerys keeps her composure before she nods, turning her head to the side. It’s the only permission she will give to let Jon climb behind her, and she feels relief swell in her as he takes the cue. 

Daenerys tries not to react as Jon hauls himself up. He’s still as uncoordinated as before, grunting when he finally swings his leg over Rhaegals dorsal. He takes a moment to settle before his hands hover, realising he has positioned himself too close to her to grab Rhaegal’s spines. He hovers, and Daenerys looks back down, eyes on Grey Worm.

“We will return soon,” she says, and her eyes drift to the figure beside him, Missandei’s smile clear even at this distance. Daenerys smiles back, glad to see her friend, and makes a silent promise to return for her, to take her on a tour of King’s Landing and introduce her to the people she’s acquainted herself with. For now, though, Rhaegal has other ideas. 

Jon’s hands are still hovering, and Daenerys is on the cusp of telling him to get on with it when Rhaegal lurches up. The decision is made for Jon and he clutches at her waist, a noise of surprise escaping him, as if he’d wholly forgotten what dragons were born to do.

They fly, just the two of them, and Daenerys can’t help but lean back. She closes her eyes, imagining that Jon is focused only on her, that he came all this way just for her, for their love, and she finally feels like the world she’s sought is finally hers.

That will change when they land. She knows that and it sours in her mouth. 

Jon Snow belongs to the North, not to her. Daenerys knows this, knows she will never be enough for him, but oh she cannot stop herself from hoping. 

Love, even in this future, is going to be the death of her.


End file.
